Midsummer Heat

One single wisp,
One feathery, fairy-like wing of cloud hangs,
Abandoned by brothers and sisters,
An orphan in the midsummer swelter,
Staring below at every brown blade
Beckoning, beseeching
For a deluge,
Such distant memory now perhaps a drop will do,
To quench the cracked, and sorrowful earth,
Even crickets cease their otherwise incessant chirping earlier each day,
A squirrel languishes, lying supine in the shadows,
Legs sprawled as if the embrace the cooler earth below,
Birds sing, but do not soar,
And the hope for all is to make it,
One more day,
Each day,
Until the next rainfall!

Peter Lowell Paulson
July 14, 2012